


Aziraphale's British Bake-Off

by lhale713



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: Baked Goods, Bakery, Crowley being kind and not admiting it, Crowley just can't do anything right, Fluff, Gen, aziraphale being old fashioned, aziraphale is less oblivious than usual, crowleys love language is acts of service, i just want aziraphale to watch GBBO honestly; and no one is writing that, miracles for each other, not talking about love, old fashioned baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 10:28:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20544653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lhale713/pseuds/lhale713
Summary: Aziraphale doesn't own a television, but he does frequent the pastry shops of London. And a surprising number of them have been baking his old favourites. He finally notices the pattern, and finds out what - and who - caused it.





	Aziraphale's British Bake-Off

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. I'm sorry but why haven't I read anything about how much Aziraphale likes the Great British Bake-Off? Baking? Old-ass recipes? People being nice and supportive? Lots of gingham (which is close to tartan)? He even likes the way Noel and Sandi are hosting these days, though he still misses Mel and Sue. There are actually documented cases of the impact of this show in encouraging people to bake at home and with family and open new bakeries. If Aziraphale didn't create the show flat out, he loves it as one of the best examples of humanity. Well, if you want something done right, you have to write it yourself.
> 
> 2\. Apologies if I've misread the character of British bakeries. I'm from the US and I'm sort of just imagining a more polite version of the Italian-American bakeries I grew up at, where old men sat around drinking espresso and shooting the shit and you expected the same sort of baked goods in all of them.
> 
> 2.5 Additionally, if these pastries are still common, forgive me - I'm going off what the bakers on GBBO reacted to with confusion and consternation.
> 
> 3\. Would love feedback/constructive criticism! I'm getting back into writing after an appalling number of years doing just Academic Writing and could really use some tips on how to have fun with the written word again.

Aziraphale doesn’t own a television. He certainly doesn’t pay for a cable license. He knows that people watch television on their computer through streaming companies, but he doesn’t actually know how one accesses them. But, he does stay generally up to date on human news - he still likes getting the paper(s). He’ll check out the TV Guides and see what, generally is getting played nowadays, just to make sure they haven’t strayed too far into demonic territory. (Truthfully, for much of the twentieth century, some woman named Mary Whitehouse was doing quite a job trying to make television even more holy and staid than heaven would approve of.) However, most of what’s on looks like Crowley’s work and so he just goes back to reading and drinking. 

So you can only imagine the shocked and excited wiggles Aziraphale exhibits when the generic little pastry shop in SoHo has a pastry he hasn’t seen in ages.

There are gorgeous little pork pies, hand raised, and the flavors are the ones he remembers from ages ago. It looks just like the ones they used to do with the little wooden dollies, pushing it up and twisting as they… he stops dead as he notices. The wooden dollies. They’re on the shelf, just behind the counter. There are three that have got flour on the handle and he’s certain the proprietor used one to shape these little packets of porcine pleasure.

Now, truly, pork pies and such had never really gone away but they hadn’t been made like this for ages, not since aluminum became cheap and tins were so easy to come by. Especially not in a standard little bakery like this one. Aziraphale thinks it “charmingly common”; by which he means this is a pastry shop that makes its living off some solid bread, the standard buns, birthday cakes, and the nostalgic fare of the current middle aged British man. Nothing as adventurous as a 100 year old pie making technique.

He buys one and revels both in the pie and in the nostalgia, the memory of this pastry from another lifetime.

Another day, another stroll through SoHo, another little pastry shop.

The kouign amann had been invented hundreds of years ago and he was quite fond of it. The perfect ratio of flour, butter, sugar to create a fluffy yet solid and slightly crunchy cake. He had a soft spot for a more personal reason as well. When the insult “cream puff” had become popular, Aziraphale felt the sting of knowing he was, most certainly, a cream puff. But Crowley had drunkenly announced one night that if anyone knew their baked goods they’d know that Aziraphale was a kouign-amann – yes, soft and buttery and fluffy, but he had a hard shell and could probably break your teeth if you caught him on a bad day. Aziraphale had been able to find the delectable pastry on and off in more discerning bakeries in the city. But he had certainly not expected to find it in this place. It wasn’t the same pastry shop as the pork pies – but it was of a similar vein. A solid shop, nothing remarkable.

He sees the giant, classic kouign-amann – a rounded cake cut into slices that glistened in the pastry case and noticed that there were several slices already missing. Below it, there were scattered little kouign-amanns; tiny cupcake like things all pinched into a flower shape. He bought two little ones and a slice of the big one; indulging in the caramel shellac on the rich butter pastry. He saw several more kouign-amanns over the next few months, and was thrilled the little pastry had made a comeback.

These regular strolls for pastry kept Aziraphale well updated to the changes of London. He’d noticed that lately, there were more cute little pastry shops. A veritable bakery explosion. These were ones with adventurous owners, willing to dredge up older European recipes and bring them to the forefront. He was thrilled that all of a sudden his favorites were back and people were putting modern spins on old classics. He started adding pastry shops to the list of alternative rendezvous spots for he and Crowley.

It’s during one of their ostensible meetings to discuss the end of the world, and they’re on their way to a pastry shop Aziraphale thinks quite highly of. A cute place, small and modern. The proprietor liked a soft turquoise and lilac décor, reminiscent of spring. She had set up small mismatched tables and chairs in the front of the space, and had drip coffee and tea available. She displayed her work in the usual counter-come-pastry-case, as well as refurbishing some gorgeous old bookshelves and curio cabinets as cases for her cakes and pies. It was, frankly, vaguely reminiscent of Aziraphales’ bookshop – as though it were the cute niece of a stodgy old uncle. A clear family resemblance, one might say.

Of course, the pastries are delectable. Aziraphale wouldn’t frequent a place if the pastries were not up to snuff. But in addition, the variety of little pastries was absolutely astonishing, the flavours were inventive and novel, and the cakes are gorgeous. The owner is a lovely young woman who is kind and loves people as much as her baking. The only questionable thing is the framed artwork of Mary Berry as the Holy Mother over the cash register. But, no one is perfect, and Aziraphale can overlook a little tongue-in-cheek blasphemy for a nice hot cross bun and the gentle suggestion that the young lady give a little bit of her profit to charity. As… heavenly licensing fees, you might say.

He and Crowley are strolling down the street, yammering about something – they had started with the Anti-Christ, moved to shocking and unusual modes of death, and somehow wound up talking about the viciousness of waterfowl. Crowley is trying to come up with the details of some story as they enter, and Aziraphale has tuned him out to marvel at the pastries on serve today. There’s gorgeous mille-feuille, eclairs, profiteroles – those actually may be religieuses, good lord – assorted biscuits and fondant fancies, a Battenberg Cake, and…. No. No. That cannot be what he thinks it is.

Aziraphale stops in his tracks and throws his hand out to stop Crowley.

“Crowley!” – the angel interrupted a commentary on geese and Crowley looked around, shocked. Aziraphale, when sober, was an incredibly polite conversationalist and would only have interrupted for an emergency.

“Tell me, what do you think that is?” Aziraphale was pointing to the monstrosity in the place of honor on the cake shelf. The light caught it and it nearly sparkled. If a cake could look proud of itself, this one would. This is the sort of cake you imagine on the table of particularly opulent minor kings; with more money than sense.

Thick discs of snow white meringue piped into intricate swirls. Glossy whipped cream peeking out between the layers. A hint of a strawberry, hiding inside the middle layer. Dainty crystalized flowers scattered along it. It looked as light as a feather and as though if you so much as breathed on it, it would scatter like a daydream.

Crowley scowled, but visibly relaxed as he realized there wasn’t any danger. He blew a raspberry and leaned back, as if getting a wider view would help. “I don’t know, but looks like a thing you ate in Austria…ooooh, years ago.” Crowley’s “oooh” told Aziraphale he was right. This cake was ancient. Museum levels of Ancient. Impossibly ancient.

Beneath it was a little sign – Aziraphale strode up to read it, and in neat script it proclaimed “Spanische Windtorte”, underneath, in slightly smaller script, “The Fanciest Cake in Vienna”.

It came rushing back to Aziraphale. A quick trip to Austria, much like his quick pop over to France, for some miracles and some local delicacies. He had known Crowley was over in that part of the world, and they had seen each other at parties, balls held by nobles. It was the height of the Baroque period, and everything was over the top. Aziraphale remembered the opulence, the decadence, the almost tortured aspect of the era. The Catholic church had encouraged opulence as counter to growing Protestant asceticism. Aziraphale didn’t have strong opinions on the art or architecture – but the “more is more” approach to pastry suited him just fine, thank you very much.

He attended the parties for the arguable purpose of encouraging the religious fervor of the time and smattering some blessings around. The fact that his blessing rate directly correlated with the quality of the deserts was just a coincidence. The fact that he only stayed long enough to bless people if Crowley was there was, also, a coincidence. Crowley justified attending in order to push this new opulence over to outright hedonism, and because demons loved a lavish party. Crowley, however, hated parties, and would often simply stroll around causing small mischief until he figured out whether Aziraphale would show up to thwart him. If it became clear Aziraphale wasn’t coming, he would throw out one last temptation for someone to stick another bauble on a church somewhere with money they could have used to help people and call it a night.

Aziraphale hadn’t seen a Spanische Windtorte in eons. And certainly not one so well done as this. He looked over, the young woman who owned the place was helping customers and grinning. She was no more than 30, there was no way she had ever seen these in their heyday- her great grandmother probably hadn’t even seen these. So what inspires a girl to make a fussy, difficult, ornate confection that people probably have never seen? What ancient book did she drag this out of?

Aziraphale hung back, appearing to peruse the pastry case for much longer than was necessary. He wanted the line to dwindle so he could introduce himself properly to the owner and find out more about her passion for outdated pastry. Crowley sighed as he stood by, but knew better than to try anything to hurry this up. Any infernal acts against this bakery would be met with a quick reprimand.

Finally, the shop emptied out and Aziraphale stood up primly and walked over. Crowley followed behind him, hands in his pockets and bored look on his face. Aziraphale folded his hands in front of him as he waited, and sprinkled a little bit of a suggestion into the air – encouraged the owner to recognize him, and ask his name.

She smiled as she finished closing the cash drawer.

“Good mo- oh, hey.” She switched to a warmer, informal greeting when the suggestion took hold. “You and your friend come in quite often, but I don’t think we’ve ever actually met. I’m Lil.” She extended a hand to Aziraphale, looked down and saw the powdered sugar on it, and pulled it back quickly while flipping it up, “Sorry – baker’s life, constantly a little powdery.”

“No offense taken, my dear,” Aziraphale assured her “I am Ezra Fell, this is Anthony Crowley.” Crowley gave a nonchalant nod as the girl smiled, and Aziraphale plowed on. “Tell me, where in the world did you get the inspiration for that absolutely decadent Windtorte? I haven’t seen one of those in, oh, it feels like centuries. Long before you would have even made your first cookie.” He ended with the indulgent smile he knew people found comforting, the one that made him seem a friendly old confirmed bachelor.

Lil huffed a light laugh but looked a little confused. “You don’t know? Ezra, you’ve tried every pastry in this case, and you’re telling me you don’t know where I saw a Spanische Windtorte?”

Aziraphale couldn’t tell if he was more offended by her presumptuous attitude or by her pronunciation of Windtorte- with an almost exaggerated accent.

“I certainly don’t, they’re quite an old dish and I haven’t seen one in some time, regardless of how many pastries I do or don’t eat.” Aziraphale drew himself up to his full height and frowned primly as he watched Lil’s eyebrows shoot up and she glanced at Crowley, trying to suss out what she had done wrong. The realization dawned on her face, and suddenly she looked contrite.

“You don’t watch the Great British Bake Off, do you? The cooking competition? I’m sorry, I just assumed anyone as interested in pastry as you are would jump at it, and that you knew it from there too! I’m so sorry, that probably seemed really rude!” She tripped over herself to apologize, and Aziraphale sensed that the exaggerated pronunciation had been a reference to a character on the show. He softened immediately, and replied “No, I don’t, I don’t own a television. More of a reader, or a listener.” Were radios still something people used? He wasn’t certain. They were listening to something all the time but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Crowley interjected “Yeah, he’s hooked on podcasts – my fault, shouldn’t have gotten him into them.” Aziraphale could hear the shit-eating grin on Crowley’s face. He knew that he probably would not like podcasts, whatever they were.

Lil turned to Aziraphale and said “You’d love it, it’s a reality show….competition, folks have to bake a three dishes every week, and they bring up a lot of older or less popular bakes. It’s been on for a few years now – and they did one a while back with a Spanische Windtorte, and I thought I’d give it a shot. That’s the first one good enough to put in the shop, they’re tricky. You should get into it! Its online now, I know Netflix has a few seasons. Enough to whet your appetite at least.”

“I don’t have Netflix either, I’m afraid.” Aziraphale knew vaguely that Netflix was a streaming service, and that “Netflix and Chill” was something indecent, but he had always classed it with the rest of the modern things he didn’t need.

Lil shook her head, “Alright, well, I think you’d really like it so if you want, I’ll give you my login. I don’t mind sharing, but only if you promise me you’re gonna watch it.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to handle this offer – it seemed generous and genuine, but also too much and of dubious legality.

“I’ve got one, no worries.” Crowley had jumped into the conversation, saving Aziraphale from trying to do the math on how much he could accept from this woman. 

“Well, you’ll just have to bring this luddite up to speed then Anthony.” Lil smiled at Crowley, and Crowley gave a rare smile, soft and pleasant. Aziraphale was impressed that Lil had gotten that from him so quickly.

“And Ezra! Let me know who your favourite baker is!” Lil called as they left. Aziraphale had asked for about 15 different pastries, and Lil had offered him the Windtorte, and quoted a price much below was Aziraphale knew it was worth. He told her yes, but asked if he could pick it up tomorrow, because that sort of artwork would need to be on display for a little longer in order to inspire a revival.

Aziraphale walked down the street with Crowley, musing over the show. “So tell me, dear, was that show your idea? Force fiddly, old fashioned, obscure baked goods onto the British public, punish some bakers, and see how unpleasant you can make the bakeries of the United Kingdom?”

Crowley shrugged while walking, an impressive feat; “Nah. Not entirely my doing. The idea was already there. All I did was get the ear of the folks who decide what the Technicals are. Paul’s even worse for torture than I am, I just get him information he’d never have otherwise. You figure 6000 years of time, and at least 3000 of them watching you drool over European pastries, I know what no one else does. I would know what would really hurt to make.” After a pause, he continued: “Backfired a bit though, people loved it, got into baking and started owning bakeries and bringing back lost recipes. Now baking isn’t scary and more people are spending quality time together in the kitchen.” He slipped into a sneer at the very end, like he couldn’t imagine a worse thing than increasing the amount of love-filled baked goods in the world.

Aziraphale glanced sidelong at Crowley as they walked, and recognized the indulgent exasperation there. Crowley had made the same face many years ago, in a theatre not too far from where they walked. A little miracle, just to make Aziraphale happy, was all he had asked Crowley for. Just this one play, to show Shakespeare he could do more than comedy. Crowley had gone above and beyond, knowing that a few successes would ensure that something Aziraphale loved stayed around forever. They were constantly putting on Hamlet, classic versions, modernized ones, ones with strange twists. Disney had re-done Hamlet with Lions, and a happier ending, ensuring that even children were exposed to the story of the father-avenging Danish prince. And this…Technicals business was quite similar. Crowley, who didn’t even eat and could barely be bothered to pay attention to anything but a wine list, had specifically meddled in a baking show. Seeding it with all of Aziraphales’ favourites, probably justifying a few miracles to help it take off and reach maximum frustration when people tried to recreate it at home. And instead, people had brought back all the bakes that Aziraphale had been missing. He thought about all the quaint bakeries he and Crowley had spent time in. About all the complicated, old, fiddly little pastries he had watched Aziraphale eat in the past few years.

“Well.” Aziraphale wiggled his shoulders as he stepped up onto the bottom stair to the bookshop. He looked back at Crowley. “I, for one, am quite grateful” – at his pause, Crowley started to open his mouth in protest – “that your wiles were so thoroughly thwarted.” He opened the door and gestured Crowley inside. “After you. I’ve got some lovely dessert wines in the back, if you’d set up this Bake-Off?”

Three weeks later, Aziraphale and Lil are in the back of her shop, gushing about Chetna’s Orange Savarin over a plate of éclairs. Crowley is peeking through her recipe books, trying to surreptitiously find the name of the angel’s favourite little cookie from Lebanon.

**Author's Note:**

> I. Lil is short for Lilith. 
> 
> II. There's a fic somewhere about the geese in St. James' Park, which I can't find but did provide the inspiration for the conversation that Crowley and Aziraphale are having as they walk into the bakery.
> 
> III. The cookie that Crowley is attempting to find is the Ma'amoul.


End file.
